Bariloche, The Lake

Lago Correntoso. One of the many bodies of water that span Argentina’s famous Lake District. Famous not only for being beautiful, but expensive. Full of quasi towns that popped up like weeds for the sole purpose of accommodating the hordes of tourists that visit year after year, we had a hard time finding a place without any human presence. Lago Correntoso served us well.

We set up our temporary homes a stone’s throw from the shore. We had a forest to keep us out of the sun and our own private beach. Picturesque, one could say.

Few days were left before our lives in the city were to begin again. We took advantage of every moment. The sauna that we failed to construct in the valley was up and ready to cleanse our dirty pores by early afternoon on our first day. Rocks were heated in the fire for hours as we eagerly awaited the steam bath. When they were finally good and hot, we dragged them into the sauna along with a kettle full of water to pour over them. Unfortunately for Haukur, one of the rocks had landed outside of the hole we had dug for them in the center, and his tiny, white little buns found their way on top of it. The fist-sized third degree burn that resulted made his sauna experience slightly less than pleasant.

We fished, unsuccessfully. Everyday we took an afternoon dip in the lake. Haukur baked fresh bread in the fire, and Pétur even made a harpoon out of the crossbow we had bought. Still, no fish. The evenings were spent in silence by the fire, until slowly we dozed off in the open night air.

It was our last time spent in the wilderness. Four wonderful days without a human in sight.

Bariloche, The Valley

Fifty kilometers from Bariloche, on the border of Parque Nacional Nahuel Haupi, lies Valle Encantado. It’s a climber’s paradise, filled with rocky spires that sprout out of the ground like the fingers of God. It’s also private property.

It was to be our most ambitious mission. The goals were as such:
1) Build a raft.
2) Float down the river on the raft, camping as we travel. A modern Huck Finn tale.
3) Build a sauna in which to relax after a day of raft construction.
4) Don’t get arrested.
We failed to realize any of them.

To get to Valle Encantado we first got a ride to the ‘town’ of Confluencia, two kilometers north of the valley. Confluencia consists of a gas station, a bridge, and, on the other side of the bridge, a hotel. We left the gas station on foot.

Immediately upon arriving we met some of the climbers.
“What are you guys doing here?” they asked, with skeptic looks at our packs.
“We’re gonna camp in the valley and build a raft so we can float down the river,” I replied proudly.
“Oh…” and with that he walked off.
In fact, none of the climbers would give us a second glance. We didn’t know why, but they hated us. It turns out that, unbeknownst to us, the cops had come to the area the previous week to kick campers off of the property. The owners didn’t mind the climbers, as long as they enjoyed the rocks during the day and slept somewhere else. Now, due to the amount of people that camped there regardless, like us, there was talk of threats to close the property to everyone.

We crossed the river in little plastic boats. The loathing that the climbers had for us went so far that, as some of them were crossing the river at the same time as us, I offered my hand to assist them as they docked. They refused to take it. At that point we decided it best to get out of their territory and headed into the woods in search of a place to camp.

After hours of hiking, our packs weighing us down with tools and a week's worth of food, we finally settled on a site that would serve for our labors. It was right by the river, and hidden enough that we wouldn’t have to worry about being noticed by the police. The problem was, the highway was right on the other side of the river, and it killed the wilderness ambiance that we were looking for.

A hearty dinner with rice and whiskey led us to our sleeping bags.

















The next day we had to prioritize our goals. The day before, as we hiked through hours of thicket and thorns, I had lost my rain jacket that had been strapped to the back of my pack. Luckily, Pétur had another thing in mind, which required him to backtrack as well. During our search the previous day we had come upon a rocky cliff that dropped off into the river. Pétur wanted to jump off it. After months without snow our adrenaline addict had to do something to get his blood pumping. Ryan, a guy from New Jersey with whom I had crossed paths with numerous times, had joined us for the week and he was feeling man enough to take the leap as well. Haukur and I decided to watch.

The cliff was 32 meters high, over 100 feet. We didn’t know this until afterwards.

It was all set. We had checked the water to make sure there was a good landing, Haukur was set up to get it all on film, and I was at the bottom of the cliff to serve as medic in case anything happened, all they had to do was jump.

Pétur, of course, was the first to go. I didn’t actually see him jump, but the gunshot like sound he made when hitting the water was hard to miss. The impact had knocked all of the air out of his lungs and when he came up to breathe the noise that came from him was similar to that of a death rattle. I was shaking, not having any idea if he was okay, but he swam to shore and brushed it off like nothing had happened. He just wanted a high-five.

Ryan was still building up the courage. Two or three times he signaled to us that he was ready, and two or three times he stepped back to think it over again. The fourth time he jumped.

“Oh my Goooooood!”
Boom.
“HELP!”
I looked back and screamed at Haukur and Pétur on the nearby cliff where they were filming, “FUCKING HELP!”
I stripped off my clothes and was in the water faster than David Hasselhoff. The impact had taken everything that Ryan had and he couldn’t swim. I dragged him to shore and laid him on the beach where Haukur and Pétur where waiting. He was alive, but hurting. You could see the worry on his face.

By late afternoon Ryan was still in pain. It was best that he sought medical attention. The team comes first, so we abandoned all plans and Haukur swam across the river to get help while we packed up camp. An hour later, sitting on the shore with all our gear, we saw Haukur get into a raft, using a shovel as an oar.
“Well, we’re in trouble,” he said as he floated towards us.
“What kind of trouble?”
“The police are waiting for us on the other side.”

Haukur had arrived at the opposite shore and went to the gas station in Confluencia. They told him they had no phone, nor raft and couldn't help him. He ran across the bridge to the hotel. They refused to help as well. They did call the police though. Of course, once the police were there the gas station was more than willing to help and offered Haukur the raft that they didn't have before.

After a brief interview with Neuquen's finest, Ryan and I got in the back of the squad car and we headed into town.

Everything, like always, worked out fine. The cops were hilarious. We listened to Manu Chao in the car and they just laughed when Ryan told them what happened. The Argentines think we're crazy. A quick X-Ray at the hospital showed that all of Ryan's bones were in the right place. We returned to Jorge and Ivan's place.

Haukur and Pétur were already there, Jorge and Ivan had come to rescue them. They thought we were crazy too.

Bariloche, The Beginning

Go to Bariloche, get a good night sleep in a bed, and head to the lakes for a couple weeks of camping. That was the plan.

We found a hostel as we walked into town. Cheap, small, and cozy, the owners were two brothers from Bariloche, Jorge and Ivan. Over the next couple of weeks Jorge and Ivan's place became less of a hostel and more of a friend's house. The circumstances of our travels were ever changing, as I will soon relate, and we passed through their establishment quite a bit during our time in Bariloche.

It looked as if rain was to come. We couldn't cross the river where we intented to set up camp in bad weather, and a couple of nights in a proper bed was a tempting offer. We would have to wait until the weekend to head back into the wilderness.

Bariloche is the tourist trap that we had expected. With the exception of going into town for supplies, we spent the days in the hostel. There was a small backyard with a cabin where the four week old puppy, Coco, lived. Every night after dinner we retired to the cabin, us, the brothers, and the multitude of Israelis that came and went. Alcohol filled our bellies and music filled our ears until sleep called us to our beds.

El Bolsón

El Bolsón is dangerous. You can be trapped there if you're not too careful. We thought we would pass through for a day or two. We stayed a week.

The story goes that back in the 70's El Bolsón became a haven for the hippies of Argentina and Chile. It still is today. Every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday there is a fair in the main plaza. Part farmer's market, part handicrafts, the fair packs the plaza with people the whole day, strolling through the stands, watching the preforming clowns, or listening to the various bands that play throughout the day. For our part we spent the week there in the plaza, laying in the grass and watching the people pass by. The mood was light and everybody was friends. People came and went, we would share a beer and talk about how wonderful life is.

El Camping de Mario was our home for the week. Essentially someone's large backyard in the poor part of town that had become a campground, our companions were many of the people who came for the summer to sell their wares. They came from all sides and for the summer they became a makeshift family. Every night was spent by the bonfire together, singing, passing around a jug of wine, or listening to Haukur explain what Iceland is like.

There was Mare, the Chilean girl who taught us how to make the delicious, and warm, Vino Navegado. There was Negro and Javiera, whom I spent a rainy afternoon with, cooking pasta for them in their tent so they could relax as the mushrooms kicked in. There was Lapa, the clown who had a presence in any room he was in. There was Flor from Bariloche who, with the assistance of others, spent endless hours one night doing my dreadlocks while we all sat in the community hut, avoiding the rain and telling riddles until dawn.

El Bolsón rejuvinated us.